TO
Anna Maria Greene,
My Dear Mother:
You bear your ninety-three years so lightly that i invite your attention to a new volume of mine with as much assurance of your sympathy as when i crowed and wondered over my first picture book an infant on your knee. For your sympathy is as quick and as warm as it was then, and your memory goes back with unerring certainty to the men and the scenes of almost a century ago. Your eyes have looked upon Washington, and your tenacious memory can still recall the outline of his majestic form.
The first time that i ventured to send forth a volume to the world, i set upon the dedication page the name of my father. He has been dead many years. You still linger behind, and long may you linger. Long may those fresh memories which give such a charm to your daily life continue to cheer you and instruct those who have the privilege of living with you. They have seen life imperfectly who have not seen what a charm it wears when the heart that has beat so long still lends its genial warmth to the still inquiring mind.
Reverentially and affectionately your son,
GEORGE W. GREENE.
Preface.
There are two classes of history, each of which has claims upon our attention peculiarly its own. One is a sober teacher, the other a pleasant companion. One opens new paths of thought, the other throws new light upon the old, and both agree in making man the chief object of their meditations.
Nearly two thousand years ago a Roman historian likened the life of his country to the life of man. Time has confirmed the parallel. Nations, like men, have their infancy and their youth, their robust manhood and their garrulous old age. Their lives like the lives of men are full of encouragement and of warning. Interpret them aright and they become trusty guides. Misapply their lessons and you grope in the dark and stumble at every step.
And both states and men have their special duties and were created for special ends. The God that made them assigned to each its problem, and to work this out is to work out His will. Of this problem history is the record and the interpreter. It tells us what man has been, and thereby aids us to divine what he yet may be.
If with the philosopher history reveals the laws of life, with the poet she recalls the past and stirs human sympathies in their profoundest depths. Man follows man on her checkered stage; nations rise and fall; mysteries enchain us; imagination controls us; reason guides us; conscience admonishes and warns; and first and foremost of all our stimulants to action is our sympathy with our fellow-man.